


Through Your Eyes

by aggiepuff



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blind Character, Blindness, Dol Amroth Is Not Like the Rest of Gondor, F/M, If I get some of it wrong please let me know, Slow Burn, self-sufficient Lothíriel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24228361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aggiepuff/pseuds/aggiepuff
Summary: When Queen Arwen invites Lothíriel to spend the summer in Minas Tirith, the princess of Dol Amroth eagerly agrees. Happy to leave behind her life in the palace by the sea now that she is no longer Trade Master, Lothíriel joins Queen Arwen's royal ladies, fully intending to act as her family's representative amongst the nobles and merchants residing in Gondor's capital. What she did not expect was a charming Horse King and she certainly did not plan to catch his attention.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Comments: 33
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look guys, I have no self control. I'm still working on Swan Rider but this fic refused to wait. Also, yes, the title comes from the song from the movie Quest for Camelot.
> 
> Inspired by Yours to Command: https://fanfiction.net/s/3172615/1/Yours-to-command

The crash of waves against the cliffs of Dol Amroth filled the air with their steady thrum, a counterpoint to the cries of gulls high above her head. The warmth from the setting sun bathed her face as she stood on the garden balcony. Amongst the roses and gardenias behind her, the voices of her family were a soothing murmur, a reminder that the Dark Times were gone, they were all alive and safe. 

“Lothí!” Elphir’s tenor called. “Come join us!”

Lothíriel turned, smiling, hand reaching down. Obediently, Trident stood and maneuvered so the handle of his harness was pressed into her hand. “Good dog,” she whispered, reaching down with her free hand to scratch the large dog's head. 

As he had done a thousand times before, Trident wuffled happily and led her through the garden to her seat at the large, round table where the royal family of Dol Amroth preferred to take private meals. 

One of her brothers, Erchirion by the spicy scent of his cologne, pulled back her chair and waited til she was settled before moving to sit on her other side. She felt Trident sprawl behind her chair, pressing against the back legs. Her father’s unique scent of oranges and parchment came from her right and Lothíriel turned to smile in his direction. “Hello, _Ada,_ ” she greeted him. 

“Hello, daughter. Enjoying the sun?”

“And the gulls. What are we having for dinner?”

“Shrimp, I believe, and four types of fish.”

“One for each prince,” Lothíriel observed.

“And your favorite clam soup.”

Lothíriel hummed appreciatively. “It is good to have you home again, Ada.”

“And it is good to be home.”

“What of us?” Elphir’s voice said from across the table. “Is it good to have your adoring brothers home as well?”

“I wouldn’t know. I have no adoring brothers.”

“You wound us!” Amrothos called somewhere to her left. 

“It is no more than you deserve,” Mirínean laughed.

“Brother, your wife is so cruel!”

Elphir laughed. “My wife is pure kindness and the Valar’s light.” There was a wet smacking sound and little Alphros made gagging noises. 

“Don’t scar the poor child,” Erchirion protested. 

“How can his parents’ love be scarring?” Lothíriel asked mildly.

“You only say that because you don’t have to see it,” Erchirion muttered.

“But I can hear it just fine and trust me, the noises are worse,” Lothíriel muttered back. 

The clink of Erchirion’s ring against his goblet covered his snort. 

Lothíriel waited, hands in her lap, until she felt one of the servants at her side and heard the clink of plateware on the table. The scent of warm, seasoned clam soup filled her nostrils. Lothíriel gingerly slid her hand across the tablecloth until she felt the cool silver of the spoon. 

The clam soup was tangy on her tongue and she hummed appreciatively. Beside her, Imrahil sighed happily. “I have been away too long,” he said. “There is nothing quite like being home.”

“We are happy to have you home, _Ada._ But, tell me, how is Minas Tirith?”

“Not much has changed since you were there last summer. Reconstruction has truly begun and the stonemasons are quite happy.”

“That is good. I know our own stonemasons have been sending many of their apprentices to Minas Tirith. Master Alcarin says the reconstruction provides their apprentices with a unique experience.”

“I can imagine the Guildmaster would know of these things. And what of the Spring harvest?”

“Almost complete and the farmers say it is a good crop. A Blessing that they intend to share with all of Gondor.”

“Good. Just be sure to remind Mirínean not to let the vendors drive up the prices. Food must always be affordable.”

“I remember _Ada,_ and it is unlikely Mirí will forget. She has taken quite well to the position of Trade Master.”

“And what of you, daughter? How have you taken to being Trader Master’s Counsel?”

Lothíriel frowned, carefully chewing a bite of fish. How had she taken to her retirement? Lothíriel had been Trade Master since her mother died when she was thirteen. For eight years she had been tasked with trade negotiations between the merchant princes of Umbar, the Haradrim lords, and her own province of Belfalas. For eight years she had overseen the Princedom's treasury and kept peace in the Trade Master’s Hall. For eight years she was second in power only to her father. But over this past year she had begun training Mirínean to take her place, as she had always known Elphir’s wife would. And with the turning of the seasons, Mirínean had been crowned, taking on the role and title in full.

“It is...strange,” she said at last, “but it is a good kind of strange, I think.”

“And what do you intend now that you have no responsibilities?”

“I have responsibilities, _Ada_ ,” she protested. “I have embroidery I must complete and, most importantly, I have little Alphros to corrupt!”

Imrahil laughed. “Of course. How could I forget the most important of your duties?”

“It is a doting aunt’s prerogative,” Lothíriel sniffed. 

“Yes, a doting aunt,” Imrahil hummed. “Speaking of doting…”

Lothíriel tilted her head. She wasn’t sure what to make of her father’s tone. It was far away, as if remembering something that, while not unpleasant, was something he did not quite know what to make of yet. “Yes, _Ada?_ ”

“It appears you have an admirer, my darling.”

Lothíriel frowned. “An admirer?”

“Yes, an admirer - two, in fact, though their intentions are vastly different.”

Lothíriel set down her fork and turned her face fully in the direction she could hear her father’s voice. “You confuse me, Ada. Please speak plainly.”

“While I was in Minas Tirith our new Queen Arwen Undómiel approached me to pay compliment to you, my daughter. She thought your conduct at her wedding and coronation last summer was quite exceptional and wished I make her compliments known. She also invited you to return to Minas Tirith.”

Heat flushed Lothíriel’s cheeks. “Her majesty does me great honor,” she said, ducking her head.

“Honor of which, I'm sure, you will prove worthy.”

“Of course, _Ada._ I will begin preparations on the morn. Mirínean has been wanting to send an envoy to the Guilds of Minas Tirith. I think a caravan will be just the thing.”

“An excellent plan. Now, about this matter of your other admirer...” Lothíriel heard him shift in his chair and sigh. “It appears the Queen was not the only one watching you at their Majesties' wedding and coronations.”

“I did not think I was that remarkable.”

Imrahil's large, warm hand covered hers, the calluses on his palm from long study of a variety of weapons a reassuring roughness against Lothíriel's knuckles. “Of course you are remarkable,” he said softly. “You are the most remarkable woman in all of Middle-Earth.”

“So says a father to his daughter,” Lothíriel quipped but she could not keep the pleased smile from her face. “But, tell me, who is my second admirer?”

“You seem to attract the attention of all royals who see you,” Imrahil mused cryptically.

“ _Ada,_ ” Lothíriel sighed. Really, her father could be rather irritating.

“It is Éomer-king whose eye you have caught, my beautiful daughter.”

“The King of _Rohan_?” Lothíriel squeaked. 

“Yes,” Imrahil said, “the king of Rohan. He said you two met last summer. Something about him being too loud in the library?”

Lothíriel flushed again. “I didn't...I didn't know he was the king.” The memory of that overly warm day in Minas Tirith flooded her senses. She had retreated to the library, seeking shelter amongst the cool shelves. A man's baritone voice had approached where she sat in one of the library's large, screened windows. A second voice, a deeper bass, answered angrily. It had been a loud, rumbling voice that jarred her senses and she informed the speaker as such. The men made apologies and left quickly but Lothíriel’s stomach still twisted with uncomfortable embarrassment at the memory. 

“What did you say?” Imrahil asked. She could hear his concern in the way his voice dipped low.

Lothíriel sighed. “I was quite rude. I shouldn’t have been. King or no, my behavior was inexcusable. I will need to apologize.”

She felt her father’s scrutiny, her skin prickling under his sharp gaze. Finally, he said, “Alright. I believe I will send Amrothos with you. He has some business in Minas Tirith.”

Lothíriel smirked, privately relieved the conversation had moved on. “Would that business be a certain gardenia-scented maiden from an northern province?”

“I heard my name!” Amrothos called. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Lady Rohesia,” Lothíriel chirped innocently. “ _Ada_ says you and I are to visit Minas Tirith this summer and I was hoping to speak with her regarding Ithilien’s harvest.”

Beside her, Erchirion snickered. 

“Uncle Amro,” little Alphros called, “why are you all red like that? Do you have a fever?” 

Lothíriel arranged her face into what she hoped was a confused frown. “Oh no, Amro, I hope you are not coming down with something.”

“Nonsense,” Amrothos said quickly. “Of course I will accompany you to Minas Tirith, dear sister.”

“Let us hope he can focus on his duty as brother rather than Lady Rohesia’s _harvest,_ ” Erchirion muttered.

Lothíriel smothered her giggles with a hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Lothíriel gripped her staff, swaying gently with the wheelhouse as it trundled across the plains. Trident’s head lolled in her lap, the great dog sleeping the afternoon away. Lothíriel’s other hand moved over the raised bumps of her book, happily reading the story of Bethen and Lúthien. To her left, her lady’s companion Gilaen gently played a lilting tune on her lap harp as Gilly’s mother, Gwendolyn, messed with fabric of some kind. Lothíriel could hear the rustle of it in Gwendolyn’s gentle hands; she thought it might be silk from Harad with the way it whispered.

"How much longer?" Gilly asked, stopping her music. Something creaked and the noise of their caravan filled the wheelhouse; she must have opened one of the windows.

"Another hour at least," Gwendolyn answered. "When did you become so impatient?"

"We've been traveling for a week," Gilly protested. "If _someone_ didn't get green at the gills when traveling by water…"

Lothíriel ignored Gilly's teasing of her seasickness. At her side, Trident lifted his head, wuffling at Gilly. Lothíriel ran her hands through his coarse fur, enjoying the texture. He leaned into her touch, settling again as she said, “She’s anxious to see all the pretty boys at tonight’s party.”

Gilly sputtered good naturedly and Gwendolyn snorted. “Oh, aye, I’m sure.” Lothíriel could feel Gwendolyn’s hawklike gaze sweep across the wheelhouse to her daughter. “Ye’ll not be forgettin’ yer duty to our Princess, lass,” she reminded her. “Ye get to go to all the pretty balls an’ enjoy the finery but ye canno’ leave th’ Princess’s side.”

“Oh, Gweny,” Lothíriel protested, “where’s the fun in that? Gilly deserves to have some fun.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Lothí,” Gilly said dramatically. “I shall enjoy from afar and whither away from neglect.” She sighed loudly, the sound of utter despair.

Lothíriel smothered a giggle.

“Oh, you,” Gwendolyn said but even her stern demeanor was no match for Gilly’s theatrics. Lothíriel reached beside her, searching until her fingers curled around the corner of a plush cushion. Quick as a snake, she flipped that stuffed square in the direction of Gilly’s voice.

It collided with a soft thump. “Oof! What was that for?”

“I was afraid you were withering,” Lothíriel replied with a wicked grin. 

Gilly laughed and tossed the cushion back. Lothíriel dodged, heightened hearing warning her of the incoming missile. It quickly devolved into a cushion fight and even Gwendolyn got in several good wacks, laughter filling the wheelhouse accompanied by Trident’s indignant barks.

“Oh!” Gilly cried suddenly between giggles.

“What happened?” Lothíriel gasped, wiping away tears.

“Yer las’ cushion went through th' window,” Gwendolyn laughed.

“What’s this now?” A new voice called. Horse’s hooves thumped outside the wheelhouse and Amrothos’ scent of fresh hay and leather filled the air. “I believe you dropped this, ladies.”

“Oh thank you, gallant sir,” Gilly simpered. 

“It is always my pleasure to help such fair maidens.”

“Oh, go off wit’ ye,” Gwendolyn scolded. “Always such a flirt.”

“Go away, Amro," Lothíriel called, "we’re having fun.”

“Best get ready, dear sister,” Amrothos replied. “I can see Minas Tirith on the horizon.” He pronounced the 'r' with the roll of their mother's native Umbar. 

“Oh,” Lothíriel breathed. “Describe it to me again, please?”

"It sits against mountains, silver-white and shimmering like a pearl in the sun. There are seven rings and above it all the White Tower of Ecthelion pierces the clear blue sky."

"It sounds lovely."

"It is," Amrothos agreed, "and soon we will arrive. Do you intend to ride into the city?"

Lothíriel paused, considering. All her life she had played the game of perception. First as the born-blind daughter of one of the most powerful men in Gondor, then as the Trade Master of Dol Amroth. It would make a statement, she thought, to ride into Minas Tirith rather than hidden away in the wheelhouse. She turned to Gilly. "Would you mind?"

"Of course not," Gilly said. "Urchin will enjoy the exercise."

Lothíriel smiled. Urchin was Gilly's sweet natured palfrey. Gilly loved his color best, claiming he was the deep gold of a setting sun. Lothíriel wasn't sure about that, but she loved the delicate feel of him and the way he always asked her for treats with a gentle nudge.

"Ye'd best be changin' then," Gwendolyn said. "Gilly, close tha' window and help me get her Highness into an appropriate ridin' dress."

The split riding skirt Gilly pulled from one of Lothíriel's trunks was the soft one Gilly said matched her eyes as a dusky blue, embroidered with silver flowers and vines. Gilly guided one leg then another as Lothíriel steaded herself with her polished staff. Next came the shirt of soft cotton, the tails of which Lothíriel tucked into the skirt's high waist. Lothíriel ran her fingers over the fine embroidery at the cuffs as Gilly rooted around in the trunk. 

“Where is it?” she muttered and something thumped.

“Be careful wit’ that,” Gwendolyn scolded. 

“Sorry. Here it is!”

“What were you looking for?” Lothíriel asked.

“This,” Gilly answered. “Here.” Gilly took Lothíriel’s wrist and gently guided her hand to a length of soft leather. “A vest,” she said by explanation, moving Lothíriel’s hand to the indented edge of the garment. “It's worked leather with tooling to match the magnolias on your skirt.”

“Sounds beautiful,” Lothíriel said, feeling along the twining flowers. “I didn’t know I had this.”

“You didn’t,” Gilly laughed. “Mother had a whole new wardrobe made for this trip.”

“Gwen,” Lothíriel protested even as Gilly guided her arms into the vest.

“Don’ go startin’, yer Highness. Ye’ll be here a good long while and I didn’a want ye to be a country bumpkin to the fine ladies of the Minas Tirithan court.”

“Dol Amroth is not a country backwater.”

“Of course not, yer Highness. But this is the royal court an’ I wanted ye to be at yer best.”

Lothíriel smiled. “Thank you, Gwendolyn.”

“Tis only right,” Gwendolyn said briskly, tugging Lothíriel’s skirt straight. “Yer mother, may the Valar bless her passin’, would want ye at yer best. There's even some of those Umbaran anarkali dresses ye love so much."

Lothíriel beamed. She loved anarkali dresses with their weight and full skirts with beaded embroidery over pants of the same material and long stoles. "You are a Blessing, Gwen."

The wheelhouse swayed to a stop and someone knocked on the door. “Are you ready?” Amrothos called. 

“A moment,” Gilly called as she draped a length of cloth over Lothíriel’s head, tucking in the ends of her hair and arranging the stole so it wouldn’t slip, pinning it in place. “I think we’ll forgo the veil,” she said

“Aye,” Gwendolyn agreed. The door creaked as it was pushed open. “She’s ready.”

Gilly looped her arm through Lothíriel’s and guided her to the door. When she pushed it open, the wind brushed across her cheeks and the scent of earth, horses, and grass filled her nose. Tack jingled to her left and Amrothos reached out, placing a gentle hand on her arm. Trident nudged the back of her knees. 

“Stay, Trident,” she ordered the massive, shaggy dog.

Trident huffed but his questing nose left her legs and she heard him flop onto a pile of cushions inside the wheelhouse.

“I’ll lift you down,” Amrothos said before placing his hands on her waist and gently hoisting her into the air. 

For a moment Lothíriel floated, her only tether her brother’s hands on her waist, then he lowered her to the solid ground and tucked her left hand under his arm. 

“Here,” Gilly said from her right and pressed her staff into her free hand.

“No, thank you, Gilly. I can’t hold my staff and the reins.”

“Of course.” Gilly said, taking back the staff. “And I’m back to the wheelhouse. Let me know when we get there.”

Amrothos chuckled and Lothíriel assumed Gilly was flouncing. She liked to do that when it was just the family. Gwendolyn often bemoaned Gilly’s occasional drop in propriety but such was bound to happen when raised alongside the princes and princess, as close as a sister. 

The ground was soft beneath her boots as Amrothos guided her to Urchin. His wonderfully horsey smell reached her first, then his soft nose nuzzled at her hair, his hot breath against her cheek.

“Hello, beautiful,” she cooed to the gelding. 

Urchin wuffled at her and Amrothos had to tug her away. He placed his hand on her knee and she bent her leg, gripping Urchin’s saddle, letting Amrothos hoist her high into the air as she swung her free leg up and over. Amrothos lowered her into the saddle and she fumbled for a minute, searching for the reins in Urchin’s mane. 

Amrothos pressed the leather straps into her hands and patted her leg. “Comfortable?”

Lothíriel straightened her spine. “Of course.”

“Excellent.” Amrothos moved away and Lothíriel waited, listening as the caravan prepared to move again. 

It was exciting, being part of a caravan. True, a ship up the Anduin from Belfalas Bay was faster, but Lothíriel would always love the camaraderie of a caravan and the scent of grass and earth on the wind rolling across the hills. It was far better than the stuffy, stale air of a ship’s cabin. 

“Move out!” a deep voice called and the creak of leather and moving things filled the air. 

A horse’s hooves trotted up next to her. “Here we go,” Amrothos said and Lothíriel smiled, nudging Urchin into a gentle walk.

The ride to Minas Tirith was pleasant, a soft breeze sweeping over the caravan. Amrothos kept up a steady commentary, telling stories of his last visit to Minas Tirith. Lady Alvina and Lord Althalos had thrown a party that was the celebration of the year; Lady Rowan was expecting her third child, last he heard, and no one could name the father though it was certainly not her husband who spent far too much time with a very handsome academic; and Lady Rohesia wrote the week before their departure to express her joy that he was returning to Minas Tirith.

The sun was at her back when trumpets sounded ahead of her.

She flinched. “What was that?”

“The guards of the gate,” Amrothos answered. “We are approaching the gates of Minas Tirith and they have spotted our royal banners.”

“Oh." Lothíriel touched her headscarf self consciously. It was still in place. "Are there crowds around the gate?”

“Yes, but they have been stopped so that we may pass. The guards are saluting us and everyone is staring at the Flower of Dol Amroth.”

“It is not the thing to call yourself the Flower of Dol Amroth, dear brother.”

She could feel his scowl on her. “Your wit is remarkable,” he said dryly. 

“You adore my wit,” Lothíriel laughed.

Beneath her, the soft thump of Urchin’s hooves on packed earth changed to the clip-clop of cobblestone. The murmur of a large crowd filled her ears. She shifted nervously in the saddle. “Are they really staring?” she asked softly. 

Amrothos’ warm ham wrapped around her forearm. “Peace, dear sister. They look on all of us and you are beautiful. Truly shining like the sun.”

“You always say I shine,” she muttered.

“It is the truth. You have Mother’s burnished gold skin and dark hair touched with the sun’s fire. These Gondoran are pale in comparison.”

“But I have Father’s eyes?”

“Yes,” Amrothos said gently, “you have Father’s eyes, like a storm at sea.”

Lothíriel squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Her fidgeting hands stilled, resting lightly on the reins as she’d been taught. She was a princess of Dol Amroth. She could bear the scrutiny of the masses.


	3. Chapter 3

Éomer was unsure what to expect from the princess of Dol Amroth. She had made quite the impression the summer before, snapping at him in the library. Even when he was only the sister-son of the king strangers had not snapped at him as she did.

He’d asked about her in the following days. She is intelligent, Faramir said of his cousin, and goodhearted. She is quite pleasant, Arwen Umondiel said with a certain sparkle in her eye that reminded him of his matchmaking aunts. He stopped asking her Majesty about women, after that.

Still, he remembered the way her dark hair was wound like a crown about her head that day in the library and how the late afternoon sun made her dark skin glow gold. He watched her in the days that followed. She was almost always in the company of her blonde companion, their arms intertwined, and she was never without a cane or staff in hand. He wondered idly if she had some sort of ailment or injury that required assistance when walking. 

Still, she was pretty, darker than most women of Gondor, and certainly those of his home. He liked her smile, he had decided, but before he could speak to her again she returned to Dol Amroth and he departed for Edoras.

He passed the winter months in comfort, feasting at Yuletide and missing his sister with a quiet ache. Thankfully, Éowyn wrote often, her dedication to letters much increased by her long courtship with Faramir. When she informed him of her first pregnancy, Éomer ordered a feast day and all of Rohan celebrated their White Lady.

Then, in early spring, Aragorn - he would always be Aragorn, no matter that these Gondorans called him Elessar - informed him that Arwen invited Imrahil’s daughter to join her in Minas Tirith for the summer months and asked if he, Éomer, would like to join them as Éowyn awaited her first child due by midsummer. Éomer considered the invitation seriously. 

The lure of being there for Éowyn and the arrival of his first sister-child was too great. Upon consulting with his steward, Elfhelm, he sent a response to Aragorn, confirming his presence for the warm months in Minas Tirith. 

He arrived several days before the contingent from Dol Amroth and was settled in one of the great houses in the first ring where the nobles lived. It was called the House of Horselords and was the traditional domicile for visiting Rohirric envoys, dressed in decorations that reminded him of home with horse head carvings and green brocade, the white horse pennant of Rohan hung on the stone wall. 

Aragron sent a runner when the messenger from the gate guards said the contingent from Dol Amroth was in the city. Éomer joined his friends in the Courtyard of the White Tree, standing on the steps of the Tower of Ecthelion as a wheelhouse, two wagons, a squad of guards in the blue and silver of Swan Knights, and two riders trundled through the King’s Gate. 

Éomer assumed the princess was in the wheelhouse as a proper lady but he recognized the lead rider: Amrothos, Prince Imrahil’s youngest and most wayward son. Éomer smiled at the sight of his battlefield friend then his eyes slid to the rider behind him and blinked. 

Princess Lothíriel sat astride a dun palfrey, staring straight ahead and smiling slightly. Her dark hair was hidden beneath a bolt of dusty blue cloth that matched her split skirt, her face mostly in shadow from the late afternoon sun.

Amrothos caught sight of their welcome party and beamed. “Well met!” he called. “King Elessar and Queen Arwen, you honor us. And my friend, Éomer-king, all come to greet little old me?”

Arwen laughed, a sound like silver bells. “I am far more eager to greet your sister, my Lord.”

“You flatter me, your Majesty.” Lothíriel smiled, turning towards them, her face coming into focus as they approached. He liked her eyes, Éomer decided. They were pale gray, stunning in her dark face and framed by thick, black lashes. 

Their caravan stopped and Amrothos swung from the saddle. Éomer waited for Lothíriel to dismount but she didn’t, staying in her seat and lifting out her hand as if waiting for someone to take it.

“Coming, sister dear,” Amrothos said, stepping around Lothíriel’s horse and taking her hand.

Lothíriel tilted her head slightly but didn’t turn her head. Amrothos released her hand but did not step back, waiting as Lothíriel swung her far leg high over the horse’s neck and twisted in the saddle so she faced him. Then, she held out her arms again.

Éomer had seen many women dismount in such a fashion, helped down by a male companion from a sidesaddle. Lothíriel, however, did not lean down as most women did to place her hands on her brother’s shoulders. She simply waited until Amrothos guided her hands to his shoulders before he plucked her from the saddle, settling her gently onto the paved stone of the courtyard.

“Thank you, Amro,” Lothíriel said, smiling.

Arwen stepped forward. “ _Suil_ , Prince Amrothos, Princess Lothíriel. _Gi nathlam hí._ ”

“ _Le fael_ , your Majesty,” Lothíriel answered, turning towards the queen, hand on her brother’s elbow. “I was flattered to receive your kind invitation.”

Behind them, the door to the wheelhouse opened and a young woman - the same blonde companion from the previous summer, Éomer noted - stepped down, followed by a great, shaggy gray dog in a strange harness. It looked to be made of leather with padding across the creature’s chest and around its ribs and there was a loop of stiffened leather or metal wrapped in leather arcing up from its back. The dog looked around the courtyard seeming to search for something until it spotted Lothíriel, promptly trotting to the princess.

Éomer thought to intercept the dog for a moment - it was at least as tall as the princess’s hip, if not taller and looked to be one of those rough hunting hounds that could take on big game - but Amrothos smiled for the dog and stepped out of its way, allowing it to stand at Lothíriel’s side. 

“Good boy, Trident,” Amrothos said to the beast. “My sister’s guide dog,” he informed Arwen with a genial smile. 

“A noble creature,” Arwen said but Éomer didn’t hear. 

A guide dog? Why did the princess need a guide dog?

He watched her, the way she turned her head when someone spoke but never seemed to be looking at them, as if her attention was always just a few degrees off. She traded polite greetings with Aragorn but she didn’t meet his eyes, staring straight at his chest after dipping an elegant curtsey without bowing her head. Was the princess...could she not see?

Aragorn waved him over. “My lady, if I might have the pleasure of introducing my dear friend, Éomer-king of Rohan.” 

“The pleasure is mine,” Éomer rumbled, stepping forward

Princess Lothíriel turned her head and Éomer clearly saw her eyes: pale gray made paler by the golden tan of her skin. She smiled in his direction, but her eyes did not move toward his face nor did she look up. The princess _was_ blind. 

Éomer was not expecting the princess to be blind. He had intended, on this trip, to learn more of his friend Imrahil’s daughter. To determine if she might be a candidate for Queen of Rohan. But Rohan was a rough country, without the over polishing of Gondor’s marble halls. Could a blind princess survive in Rohan? More importantly, could a queen?

The princess smiled slightly. "You do me great honor," she said, "and after I was so rude last summer. I apologize and deeply regret my words. I hope we may begin anew?"

Éomer bowed low. "The honor is mine," he rumbles automatically, "and, please, let us forget the unpleasantness of the Library. I should not have been so loud in a space reserved for quiet."

Lothíriel's smile broadened. "I am glad. I met your sister last summer and she spoke so highly of you. I was hoping to become friends."

In spite of himself, Éomer found himself charmed. 

"Come," Arwen said, looping her arm through Lothíriel's on her free side, "I am sure you are hungry and I have had a luncheon laid out for you in my private parlor."

"Thank you," Lothíriel said, beaming.

"Once we have settled in the house I will send Gilaen to you."

Éomer twitched. He hadn't seen the older blonde step down from the wheelhouse. She seemed to be the mother of the princess's companion.

"Thank you, Gwen," Lothíriel said before disappearing into the Citadel, the dog Trident trotting at her side.

"Are you to accompany us to the House of Swans, your Highness?"

Éomer turned back to Amrothos, watching as the young prince considered the older Gwen's question. Finally, he said, "No, not right now, Gweny, darling. Please go ensure the House is ready for us and I will be by later this afternoon."

Gwen rolled her eyes at the pet name but curtsied, returning to the wheelhouse alongside her daughter. Éomer watched her go, eyebrows raised.

Amrothos caught his expression. "Don't mind Gwendolyn," he said cheerfully. "She changed my nappies as a baby which allows her to do almost whatever she likes. Now," he clapped Éomer on the shoulder, "last we spoke you promised me a taste of that fine Rohirrim honeyed Mead. Where is it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin  
> http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/phrases.html  
> Suil - Greetings  
> Gi nathlam hí - You are welcome here  
> Le fael - You are generous


	4. Chapter 4

Lothíriel left Queen Arwen after a lovely luncheon in the Queen's solar with several of her ladies, including Princess Éowyn and Lady Rohesia. Lothíriel was delighted to meet Éowyn again and Rohesia, being Amrothos' lady love, was always a delight.

By the time she departed for the House of Swans, Lothíriel had been invited to no less than four garden parties, a summer ride and picnic in the meadow beyond Minas Tirith's walls, three dinners with various noble families, and a party being held in the palace that night. Lothíriel bade the noblewomen goodbye, promising to see them all later that evening at the Queen's gathering, smiling and laughing as they teased her goodnaturedly. She was almost out the door, Trident's harness in her hand, when Lady Rohesia's voice stopped her.

"A moment if you please, Princess?"

Lothíriel turned back, smiling at her friend. "Yes, Lady Rohesia?"

"If you would like, it would be my honor to escort you to the House of Swans."

Lothíriel's smile grew. "It would be my honor to have your company."

Lady Rohesia looped her arm through Lothíriel's free one and the two walked through the palace arm in arm.

"How have you been since last we met?" Lothíriel asked. "I know we just spent most of the afternoon together but being in so large a group is not the same as having you all to myself."

Lady Rohesia squeezed Lothíriel's arm companionably. "I've missed you, in truth."

"Just me, or is there another Dol Amrothan you missed?"

Lady Rohesia huffed, mock indignant. "It would be easier to miss your brother were he to actually declare his intentions."

Lothíriel laughed. "Yes, he does manage to forget important details."

"It's been three years of courting and not one hint of a marriage proposal."

"You could always demand he get his act together," Lothíriel suggested. It was what she would do, she thought, if she were being courted by a man who would not make up his mind.

"Where's the fun in that?" Lady Rohesia asked. "It's much more fun watching him try and make me swoon. Though maybe I should flirt more with other men. You know, that King of Rohan is very handsome."

Lothíriel shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Say, tell me, is it true they found ancient underground ruins in the hills south of your family's estates?"

Lady Rohesia didn't seem to mind the sudden change in topic. An avid academic, she gushed about the find until doors creaked in front of them and a cool spring breeze swept over their faces. She broke off her description of what must have been a long forgotten temple full of beautiful stone carvings to warn Lothíriel of the steps down from the palace to the courtyard.

Once outside the palace, the stone beneath their feet turned from polished marble to cobblestones worn smooth by wind, water, and time. Under her hand, Trident pulled her slightly to the right and she followed him, walking in what felt like an arching path until they reached the Gate of Kings. Soldiers called greetings which Lady Rohesia and Lothíriel returned as they passed under the high arch into the wide, well kept streets of the Seventh Circle where the nobles and wealthiest of merchants lived. 

The House of Swans was one of the buildings nearest the palace, a sign of their status as one of the greatest families of all Gondor. Were circumstances different, Lothíriel might have lived permanently in this House as the female head of her uncle, the former royal steward's household. With the reminder of her possible life, Lothíriel was grateful she was born blind and her Uncle Denethor hadn't wanted the responsibility of a blind girl.

So, instead of growing up under her uncle's thumb in the House of Swans, Lothíriel was greeted by the scolding Gwendolyn as she approached the three story townhouse.

"Of all the fool things, getting drunk not even an hour after ye arrive. Beggin' yer pardon, yer Majesty. Here, take this. It'll keep the hangover at bay. Valar knows I've brewed enough of that tea for ye, yer Highness. No, don't look at me like that. Ye deserve the headache. I should just dump ye in the trough like I did when ye was a boy."

Lothíriel fought giggles as, beside her, Lady Rohesia's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Gwendolyn's voice grew louder as the two women entered the small courtyard at the front of the house.

"You don't have to scold so loudly," Amrothos grumbled to Lothíriel's left.

"Serves you right," Lady Rohesia said with a haughty sniff. Lothíriel grinned. Like any well brought up northern lady whose family brewed some of the strongest ales in all Gondor, Rohesia could drink most men under the table. Amrothos had lost quite a few contests to her in the past.

Amrothos groaned. "Don't sneak up on me, _hiril vuin._ "

"You still haven't told me what that means," Lady Rohesia informed Amrothos, slipping her arm from Lothíriel's.

Lothíriel shook her head. Really, Amro was incorrigible. "Will he be well by tonight, Gwen?"

Gwendolyn huffed and stoneware clinked. "He's had his tea, as has his Majesty."

Lothíriel frowned. "His Majesty?"

"She means me," a new voice rumbled, deep and soft like distant thunder. Lothíriel always loved the sound of far-off thunder.

Keeping one hand on Trident's harness, Lothíriel dipped a curtsey at exactly the right depth for a princess to a king, using her free hand to fan out the flowing leg of her split riding skirt. Beside her, Lady Rohesia did the same, her curtsey lower than Lothíriel's.

"You honor us," Lothíriel said to Éomer-king whose voice came from somewhere near Amrothos. "I hope you are not feeling too unwell?"

"I am feeling much better, thank you. Your Mistress Gwendolyn's tea has been a great help."

Lothíriel smiled. "I'm glad. I hope this means we will see you tonight at Queen Arwen's party?"

"What party?" Amrothos asked.

"Her Majesty is throwing a ball tonight," Lady Rohesia answered. "I was hoping to see you there, my Lord, but if you are too hungover…" Lady Rohesia let her words trail off delicately.

Lothíriel bit her lip to hide a grin. As good of friends as she and Rohesia were, Lothíriel knew just catching up had not been Rohesia's real reason for accompanying her to the House of Swans.

"Why, my lady," Amrothos said, voice coming closer to Lothíriel and Lady Rohesia, "it would be my honor to escort you tonight.

"And if I say I already have an escort?" Lady Rohesia asked archly.

"Then I would say it would be my pleasure to fight a duel for the glory of your company," Amrothose declared with all the drama of a mummer.

Lady Rohesia seemed to consider him for a moment. Lothíriel waited, enjoying the show. Finally, she said, "Very well. You may escort me to the Queen's ball tonight, but my first dance is already spoken for."

"If your first is taken then so be it, but if I may have the second?"

"Only if you escort me home," Lady Rohesia bargained.

Lothíriel shook her head fondly. Lady Rohesia's first dance was always taken by her father. As his only child and with her mother dead, all they had was each other. Love of dancing was something Lady Rohesia inherited from her father and so they always danced the first song together. Lothíriel thought it was sweet.

Skirts rustled beside Lothíriel and Lady Rohesia swept away, calling farewell as she departed the courtyard. Lothíriel assumed Amrothos was on her arm.

"Are they always like that?" Éomer-king's deep voice asked.

Lothíriel's hand tightened reflexively on Trident's harness; she had forgotten the king was there. "For the most part," she answered. 

She started toward his voice, allowing Trident to guide her around any obstacles. There was a bench near Éomer-king and with Gwendolyn there to act as chaperone she thought she might as well speak with him. Trident stopped abruptly and Lothíriel reached down, feeling cold stone beneath her hand. Gingerly, she sat. A moment later, Trident settled at her feet, leaning against her shins.

Turning her face to where she thought he might be, she smiled. "Please, won't you join me for some tea? I promise it will taste better than Gwen's hangover remedy."

"I wouldn't want to impose," Éomer-king said, sounding reluctant. His voice came from the right of where she faced. He sounded much closer than she expected, almost as if he was right next to her. 

"You wouldn't be imposing," Lothíriel replied, still smiling with an internal shrug; she wouldn't blame him if he didn't wish to spend time with a stranger, "but if you have other things you need to do, I understand."

"It's not that I don't want to, your Highness, but I am not sure it would be proper."

Lothíriel tilted her head, confused. "Proper?" It had been a long time since she needed to worry about propriety. Such things were the concerns of eligible young women, not the Trade Master of Dol Amroth whose position placed her outside the usual courting games. Perhaps this was something she must start considering now that she no longer wore the Trade Master's crown. 

"Well," she said, "if you do not believe it will be proper I will not force you."

Cloth shifted slightly next to her. He must be sitting on her bench - or perhaps she was sitting on his. 

"Were it proper," he said, "then you need only ask for my company and I would gladly give it."

There was something in his voice. The corner of Lothíriel's mouth twitched. "Are you flirting with me, your Majesty?"

"Oh, I would never dream of such a thing."

Lothíriel was sure this time. Éomer-king was flirting with her and she smiled, running her hand through Trident's curly fur. "That's unfortunate. I do like the sound of your voice, but if you are not flirting then I see no reason for your continued interest in me. Please don't let me keep you."

"I didn't realize you were so desperate to be rid of me."

Lothíriel could hear the smile in his voice and a secret thrill danced through her chest. "It is not that I want to be rid of you," she answered, "it is simply that I do not wish to overwhelm you. Especially if I am hoping to dance with you tonight."

"I did not realize Gondorams were so forward in asking for dancing partners."

Lothíriel shrugged. "Most are not but I am of Dol Amroth. We are much more forthcoming."

"Then how could I possibly refuse?" Éomer-king teased. "Though I must insist on both the first and second dances, your Highness."

Lothíriel bit her lip, fighting a grin. "Two whole dances? Are you certain?"

"Two dances at least," Éomer-king answered. Cloth shifted again. When he continued, his voice had moved to a place above her; he must have stood. "Until then, your Highness, I must bid you farewell."

Gravel crunched beneath his feet. Lothíriel stood quickly, not wanting him to leave just yet. "Lothíriel," she called in the direction she could hear him moving.

The gravel stopped, then he took a step toward her. "Beg pardon, your Highness?"

She took a deep breath, giddy energy coursing through her veins. "My name is Lothíriel. If you are to have my first two dances I think you should call me by name."

Silence stretched between them. Lothíriel pressed her nails into her palms, digging into her skin. If he did not agree to say her name then it was a polite rejection. She could live with that. She could make herself live with that.

"Then you must call me Éomer." His voice was a warm rumble that sent lightning shooting to her core. 

She beamed. "Éomer, then. I look forward to dancing with you."

"And I you, Lothíriel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> hiril vuin - beloved lady


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you will notice, the culture of Dol Amroth and the province of Belfalas will be informed by the Punjabi/Hindu/Greater India culture. If I get something wrong, please tell me. I am a white girl writing a disabled POC and I need all the help I can get. Thanks!

Gilaen fetched Lothíriel from the garden, leading her from warm spring air to the cool shade of the stone townhouse. Trident was a solid bulk at her side, guiding her around the furniture. 

"Stairs," Gilaen said, gently placing Lothíriel's hand on a smooth wooden bar sloping upward. There were no curling ridges like the front stairs so she assumed she was going up the backstairs mostly used by the servants and closer to the bedrooms.

"Thank you, Gilly," Lothíriel replied with a grateful smile. Her bed was at the top of the stairs. She could use a short rest before the party tonight. 

“In here,” Gilaen instructed, tugging Lothíriel to the right at the top of the stairs. The scent of orange blossoms filled her nose and she followed Gilaen into her suite of rooms. 

“There you are, Highness,” Gwendolyn greeted her. “I’ve just about got yer things all in order. Ye’ll be needin’ a bath a’fore the party tonight, of course. I’ve instructed the maids to draw the water. Which oil scent would you like in your hair?”

Lothíriel blinked. Really, she should have expected Gwendolyn would already be preparing for Queen Arwen’s party. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” she answered honestly. She could feel Gwendolyn’s disapproval in the air and she involuntarily bit her lip. “I was hoping to rest for a moment before having to get ready.” 

Gwendolyn hummed. “Well, at the very least best get yer dress picked, then ye can have a bit of rest.”

“Excellent idea, Mother,” Gilaen agreed. A door opened on Lothíriel’s left and fabric rustled. “Do you have a preference, Lothí?” she asked, voice slightly muffled, probably from being stuck in the clothes press. 

"I am representing Dol Amroth tonight," Lothíriel answered, "so I will wear a traditional lehenga choli."

"A choli would not be considered proper," Gwendolyn protested, sounding scandalized that Lothíriel wanted to wear the midriff-baring blouse, "not by Gondorian standards."

"Technically a lehenga choli most closely resembles what was worn in Old Númenor," commented Gilaen, who loved clothes and always ensured she and Lothíriel wore the latest fashions. She moved on Lothíriel's left, trailing the whisper of rustling silk.

Gwendolyn huffed but did not argue. Lothíriel tried not to smile. Her loyal retainer was still mostly of Rohan, the daughter of Morwen Steelsheen's personal guard, who brought his only child by his Rohirric wife with him when he followed Rohan's former queen home after her husband died. Even now, some forty years later, she didn't quite approve of the lighter clothes worn in the coastal jungle province of Belfalas. 

Her daughter Gilaen, however, fully embraced them. "Here," she said, gently guiding Lothíriel's hand to whisper soft silk. "[This one](https://pin.it/otztEsa) is the deep blue-green of the ocean. It doesn't have the multicolored vibrancy of some of your others but I think it's best not to overwhelm these Gondorans just yet." She moved her hand to another piece, this one a little thicker. "The skirt's embroidery and the choli are pale gold and will match your jewelry."

Lothíriel held out her other hand. "The dupatta?"

Gilaen placed a length of silk in her palm and Lothíriel's fingers closed on the shawl-like scarf. The edges were slightly rough and her finger traced the curve of what was probably a flower. 

"Well,” Gwendolyn sighed, defeated, “if yer goin' to be traditional you need henna."

Lothíriel perked up. "You think so?" She loved mehndi, the feel as delicate designs were traced onto her skin and knowing marks were on her even if she couldn’t see them. Gilaen, her beautiful best friend, had studied long and hard to master the art and kept the necessary supplies on hand just for her. 

"Definitely," Gilaen agreed cheerfully. “I’ll mix it up then it will need an hour or two to set before I can begin the design. Go wash yourself and take a short nap.”

Lothíriel beamed. “Thank you, Gilly.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Gilaen responded as thin, long-fingered hands pulled Lothíriel to her feet. 

“Come along, Highness,” Gwendolyn said, guiding her through to the private washroom off Lothíriel’s bedchamber. Humid air poured into her lungs and Lothíriel realised Gwendolyn must have requested a hot bath. 

Claws clicked behind her and Lothíriel reached back. Trident tucked his hand under her palm nervously. “Go on back to the bedroom,” Lothíriel told her loyal dog. “This bath isn’t for you.” She straightened, turning her head back towards where she thought the door was. “Gilly, can you remove Trident’s harness?”

“Of course!” Gilaen called back. “Trident, here boy!”

Trident nosed her hand one more time then turned and left. 

“You know,” Gwendolyn said, beginning to remove Lothíriel’s clothes, “when yer father first said he was having such a large hound trained as yer guide, I thought that beast would not knock ye flat.”

Lothíriel laughed. She remembered quite clearly Gwendolyn’s rather loud protests when Trident was first introduced. “And yet he is the sweetest, gentlest boy.”

“He still looks more like a bear or small pony than a lady’s pet,” Gwendolyn said. “Here,” she placed Lothíriel’s hand on the rim of the polished tub, “go ahead an' step in. The water will be hot but it shouldna burn.”

Lothíriel ran her hands along the tub’s lip then carefully lifted her leg and stepped in. The tub was not deep, the water coming up to just below her knee. Gingerly, allowing her body to slowly adjust to the warm water, Lothíriel lowered herself until she sat cross-legged, chest deep. 

“Turn and lay back,” Gwendolyn instructed. “We’ll start with yer arms and legs. What scent would ye like?”

“Jasmine?” Lothíriel asked. It was her mother’s favorite scent and always reminded her of Princess Fatima, the way she would wrap Lothíriel in warm, jasmine-scented hugs and let her lay in her lap while she read a story. Lothíriel thought it made her distinctly feminine and, well, her mother couldn’t be here to see Lothíriel flirt with Rohan’s king but Lothíriel could have this small bit of her all the same. 

“Excellent choice, Highness.”

Lothíriel half dozed when Gwendolyn began working the jasmine oil into her long hair. It was only when the water began to grow cold that she woke up. After Gwendolyn declared she was as clean as may be, Lothíriel was wrapped in a soft robe and led back to her room where Trident sprawled against her side while they napped in the large bed she would share with Gilaen. 

Gilaen’s soft voice and gentle hand on her shoulder roused her some time later. “Time to get ready, Lothí.”

Lothíriel groaned, turning and burying her face in the Trident’s curly fur. “How bout we just skip the party and sleep instead?”

Gilaen laughed and something soft thumped into Lothíriel’s head. 

“You hit me!” Lothíriel cried, grabbing for the soft pillow. Her fingers closed on the tasled corner and she swung blindly. The pillow hit something and Gilaen’s laughter filled the room. 

“If you would get up then I wouldn’t hit you,” Gilaen teased. Her hand closed on Lothíriel’s wrist and she tugged the princess to a sitting position. “Now, come on or I won’t have time to do your mehndi."

Lothíriel groaned but allowed Gilaen to pull her from the bed. Trident, the lazy mutt, huffed at them but did not jump down. Lothíriel cloud swear she heard the bedclothes shift as he sprawled in her newly vacated spot. 

“Obviously if you wanted a real dark, long lasting stain we’d have done this yesterday,” Gilaen chattered unnecessarily, “let the dye soak in while you sleep. But, for one party, letting it set for only an hour or two will do.”

“What designs will you use?” Lothíriel asked curiously, settling into the chair Gilaen pulled out for her. 

“I’m thinking [ swans and flowers](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/9e/ec/bf/9eecbf464d53628d562e32ec5ac5df30.jpg),” Gilaen answered. 

Lothíriel nodded. Swans, aside from being the symbol for the Princes of Dol Amroth, also meant beauty and success while flowers were happiness and joy, both excellent things for a queen’s ball. 

The henna was cold on her hands and Lothíriel sat patiently while Gilaen worked. The design she was doing was far simpler than some of the ones Lothíriel had received in the past. She remembered a particularly long session the day before Elphir married Mirínean. Lothíriel's henna hadn't actually taken that long, covering only her hands and part of her forearms, but poor Mirí's took almost all day. Then she had to sleep with them, careful not to smudge the henna or risk Gilaen and Aunt Ivriniel's wrath. 

“There,” Gilaen said, “done. Time to get dressed.”

With Gilaen’s guidance, Lothíriel stepped into the lehenga and carefully donned the choli, keeping her hands away from the sleeves. Next came a pair of soft slippers.

"Sit," Gilaen instructed, leading Lothíriel back to the chair. "I'll fetch Mother for your hair."

Lothíriel kept her hands palm down, resting them on the smooth wooden surface of the vanity before her to prevent accidentally smudging the henna. The waistband of her lehenga sat firmly across her stomach and butterflies fluttered nervously. Gilaen had fastened the dupatta diagonally across her torso, held in place by a [ vadanam](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b2/fa/f6/b2faf694dd1e75ce4022270e06a79870.jpg) of pale gold with a peacock design and set with diamonds and large emeralds, pearls dangling at intervals along the band. Gilaen said the look was perfect, the width of the dupatta laying from her shoulder to her elbow, covering her bicep. A fashionable choice, Gilaen said, but Lothíriel knew it was to appease Gwendolyn and any other Gondorans who might be scandalized at her dress.

Lothíriel didn't really understand why the Gondorans would care so much about her bare stomach. She knew, in an abstract way, that the clothes of Dol Amroth were vastly different from those worn in other parts of Gondor. Dol Amroth fashion was designed for the heat of a coastal jungle, lighter and airier than other Gondoran clothes which were made to ward off the cooler atmosphere of the kingdom’s interior. Still, clothes were clothes, made for a specific function. So long as that function was fulfilled, what did it matter which parts of the body were covered and which weren’t?

Then again, Lothíriel sighed, she was blind so what did she know about clothes? In her opinion, so long as they were soft and Gilaen said they looked good then Lothíriel considered them an excellent choice. 

The door behind her opened and Lothíriel sat a little straighter. “Gwen?”

“Here, Highness,” Gwendolyn answered, coming up behind her and laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. With her came the familiar hint of orange blossoms and Lothíriel turned her head towards the scent. “I brought a [ matha patti](https://www.kalaniketan.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/K/N/KN-KF-MP-309.jpg) for yer hair, a simple one as we’re in Minas Tirith.”

“Good,” Lothíriel said, holding out her hand, “the bigger ones are so heavy.”

Gwendolyn placed the jewelry in Lothíriel’s palm and her fingers ran over the three layers of beaded chain until they came to a large round jewel at the center. “What stone?”

“Diamond,” Gwendolyn answered, taking the stone back, “with gold chains. Simple, like I said.”

Lothíriel turned back to the desk. “Sounds beautiful.”

“Aye,” Gwendolyn agreed, stepping up behind her, “I thought so.” Her fingers card through Lothíriel’s hair and the scent of jasmine wafted about her head. Lothíriel closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of Gwendolyn’s touch. It brought to mind memories of lazy days in the balcony gardens of Dol Amroth, surrounded by the scent of blooming flowers, mandolins strumming gentle, lilting tunes. 

Gwendolyn secured the [ matha patti](https://www.kalaniketan.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/K/N/KN-KF-MP-309.jpg) to Lothíriel’s head with pins and smoothed out her long hair. The large diamond rested at the center of her forehead, just below her hairline. The weight would have been strange, but Lothíriel was accustomed to far heavier adornments. A few more tugs and Gwendolyn squeezed Lothíriel’s shoulders. “Done, little flower, and ye look lovely. Ye’ll turn e’ry head tonight.”

Heat crawled up Lothíriel’s neck. 

“Or perhaps there be a specific head ye want turned?” Gwendolyn teased. “Don’ worry, ye turned his head already this afternoon.”

Lothíriel tossed her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Gwendolyn snorted. "Course ye don', Highness. Come, le's get the henna washed from her hands."

"It's dry already?" Lothíriel asked, following Gwendolyn across the room. Porcelain clinked, and she heard water pouring into a bowl.

Gwendolyn guided Lothíriel to a smooth bowl of water. "Aye," she said, "All dry, jus' hasn't fallen off yet."

The water was cool against her skin and she carefully rinsed the dried henna away. When the backs of her hands were smooth and the henna gone, Gwendolyn handed her a cloth for drying. 

"Are you ready?" Gilaen asked behind her

Lothíriel turned smiling. "Ready." On her bed, Trident woofed curiously. "Stay, boy. I don't need you tonight."

Trident sighed and the bedclothes thumped. 

"Here," Gilaen said, looping her arm through Lothíriel's. Her arm was covered by something silk soft with a hint of embroidery around the edges.

"What are you wearing?" Lothíriel asked curiously.

"My [ pink saree,](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/63/da/0c/63da0cc3b5a434859f3fe9d30cd344e6.jpg)" Gilaen answered. "The one that's the same color as the Sunrise Garden roses.”

“That sounds very pretty,” Lothíriel replied, smiling. 

Gilaen squeezed her arm, then stopped. “Oh, we forgot jewelry!”

Lothíriel blinked, startled. “Oh, you’re right!”

Gilaen quickly slipped heavy bangles on Lothíriel’s wrists, and placed earrings in her ears. “All pale gold,” she explained as she worked, “to match your choli.” She gently arranged Lothíriel’s hair in a fan down her back, the ends brushing against the exposed skin at her waist. “There, now you’re ready.”

Gwendolyn’s strong hand snagged her wrist and pressed the smooth handle of a [ walking cane](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/68/fa/e9/68fae9a878ed2884083336ecb0f1c04c.jpg) into her palm. “Just in case, Highness. Don’ forget to have fun tonight.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you both,” Lothíriel informed them.

“You’d have to rely on Trident,” Gilaen laughed, guiding Lothíriel through the hallway to the front of the House of Swans. “Stairs.”

Using the cane to gauge the next step, Lothíriel made her way down the steps, Gilaen stepping away so she could grip the carved bannister. Once she reached the flat surface of the townhouse’s foyer, the familiar scent of leather and hay wafted in from the left.

“Ah, sister, I see we have both chosen the traditional for tonight,” Amrothos greeted her. “As has the lovely Gilly.”

“You are very handsome in your [ sherwani,](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/0e/b0/ae/0eb0ae65bb21080487f339dfc83801c7.jpg)” Gilaen complimented. 

“So long as we don’t match,” Lothíriel added. 

Amrothos sniffed. “My tastes are far superior to -”

“Mine?” Gilaen asked silkily. Lothíriel smothered a giggle with a cough. If Amrothos wasn’t careful Gilaen would turn him all around. 

“I would never say such a thing,” Amrothose edged. 

“Don’t you have a certain maiden to escort tonight?” Lothíriel asked, deciding to throw him a lifeline. Life was always far easier when Gilaen and Amrothos weren’t fighting. 

Silk rustled and Lothíriel imagined her brother was straightening the high collar of his sherwani. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I only wished to see you off properly before I go.”

“We’re leaving now,” Gilaen told him primly.

“Then I will see you there.” Amrothos’ slipper clad feet tapped across the marble floor and the door swung open. A cool breeze swept in, carrying with it the scent of cedar oil lamps and the faint trace of horses. 

“Are we taking a carriage?” Lothíriel asked as Gilaen steered her down the front walk to the street. She held her cane slight ahead, tapping along to ensure there were no dips or sudden rises to trip over.

“I thought we should arrive in style,” Gilaen explained, stopping just shy of the curb. 

A new hand touched her free elbow and one of the footmen said, his voice a soft tenor, “Allow me, your Highness.” With his help, Lothíriel stepped up into the small, open carriage, Gilaen tucking her skirt in around her before settling beside her on the bench seat. 

The carriage started forward with a lurch, the sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the cobblestones. The butterflies returned to Lothíriel’s stomach. Two dances. She had two dances with Rohan’s king. Her Aunt Ivriniel had written, proclaiming Éomer-king one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. 

Lothíriel suddenly, desperately hoped Aunt Ivriniel would be at the ball tonight. The older Dol Amrothan woman was her mentor when Lothíriel became Trade Master after her mother died, but she hadn’t seen her in almost two years, not since Ivriniel departed for Minas Tirith to represent Belfalas in the king’s Great Council.

“Oh,” Gilaen breathed beside her as the carriage turned. 

“What is it?”

“The Court of the Fountain,” Gilaen answered, voice almost a whisper, full of soft reverence. “There are lanterns all about and garlands of flowers. The White Tree is - oh, Lothí, there is magic in this place, even if it is only the magic of peace.”

“The magic of peace is the greatest gift of the Valar,” Lothíriel replied quietly.

As the carriage came to a halt, the soft murmur of voices reached Lothíriel’s ears. It sounded like several hundred people had come to the queen’s party. Nerves warred with excitement in Lothíriel’s chest. She loved parties, loved the energy of a great crowd. 

“There you are,” a woman’s voice said at Lothíriel’s side, at the height of her elbow. The scent of cinnamon mixed with a faint trace of vanilla reached her nose and she smiled. 

“Aunt Ivriniel,” she greeted her father’s sister, reaching out toward the voice. 

A soft, warm hand closed around hers, squeezing gently. The metal of several rings pressed against her palm and Lothíriel smiled. Like many Dol Amrothan women, Aunt Ivriniel considered anything less than four rings on each hand and five bangles on each wrist to be underdressed. It was a sentiment that stemmed from Belfalas holding most of Gondor's gold, silver and gem mines.

"Come down from there and let me look at you," Aunt Ivriniel ordered.

Lothíriel obeyed, gripping Gilaen's hand as she stepped down from the carriage. Once she was on solid ground, she used her staff to walk towards the cinnamon and vanilla scent of her aunt, stopping only when a pair of hands pressed on her shoulders. 

“A lehenga choli,” Aunt Ivriniel said and Lothíriel could hear her smile, “an excellent choice, my flower child. I am glad we have all chosen to be traditional tonight.”

“What are you wearing, Auntie?”

The bangles on Aunt Ivriniel’s wrists clinked gently as her hands moved from Lothíriel’s shoulders. “A [ saree](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/15/ec/9a/15ec9a98f406ebbe20fa5744c617087f.jpg),” she answered, “indigo like the night sky. I have no mehndi, though, unlike you dear.” She brought Lothíriel’s hands up. “Excellent job, Gilly, as always.”

“Thank you, your Highness,” Gilaen answered, pleased. Lothíriel grinned. Ivriniel was a woman of exacting tastes and a willingness to share her knowledge. It was she who helped Gilaen perfect her art. 

“Let us get inside,” Ivriniel said, taking Lothíriel’s arm. Gilaen moved to her other side and, sandwiched between the two, Lothíriel allowed herself to be steered up the grand steps of the palace.


	6. Chapter 6

Éomer stared unseeing at the report from the eastmark written in Elfhelm's clear, precise prose. It should not be this difficult to read and yet…

He sighed, shoving the report away. He could not concentrate. His mind hadn't been clear since the Princess of Dol Amroth rode into the courtyard and he realised she was blind.

_Blind_.

Éomer had thought throughout the winter months of the young noblewoman who seemed so full of fire as she ordered him to either be quiet or leave the Library. With such a spirit, he thought that surely his friend's daughter would make an excellent choice for Rohan's Queen. But a blind queen?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. The Princess Lothíriel was beautiful to say the least. Deep brown hair, skin the color of bronze in the sun, straight nose, full lips, and pale eyes under winged brows. It was her eyes that ensnared his imagination at their first meeting. They almost seemed to burn, full of life - _and yet unseeing._

_She was Trade Master of the province of Belfalas_ , a quiet voice that sounded suspiciously like Éowyn reminded him. He'd thought Trade Master an odd position, when he first learned of it, a division between economic and political power. Then he met Princess Ivriniel, Lord Imrahil's strong-willed sister.

There was not a power on this earth to whom he would admit being slightly scared of the short, round woman with her dark skin, gray-streaked brown hair, and far too knowing black eyes. Still, he had listened, thoroughly cowed, as she explained, in detail, the economic policies of not only Belfalas, but Gondor as a whole and how Rohan could benefit from trade with Gondor and what goods would be most profitable.

When he asked how she knew so much, she laughed and explained the Trade Master's position, held by the ruling - or eldest - princess of Dol Amroth. "Because merchants are unruly by nature," she said, "and prone to accusing everyone of favoritism, it's best to have someone who doesn't gain anything to mediate their disputes and represent them to the Prince."

Éomer could imagine the Lothíriel of the Library commanding squabbling merchants and negotiating with foreign powers, but a blind Lothíriel?

He scowled, suddenly irritated with himself. She was just as blind in the Library when she ordered him about as when she smiled and flirted with him in the garden. 

“Brother?” Éowyn stuck her head in the door of his study, blonde hair swinging in a sheet. 

Éomer blinked, smiling at the sight of his beloved sister. Motherhood suited her, he thought, brought a roundness to her face. She reminded him of their own mother, especially when she smiled as she did now. “What are you doing here, little sister?”

Éowyn strode into the study, her stomach round beneath a long pale blue dress. “I’m visiting you. What are you doing?”

Éomer sighed, gesturing towards the large desk where his papers spread haphazardly. “Come see for yourself.”

Éowyn eyed the collection of papers. "How fares Rohan?"

"The harvest grows by the day," he answered with a sigh, "the foaling has begun, the people are flourishing."

"Good," Éowyn said with a smile. Her blue eyes found his, searching. "How are you doing?"

Éomer sighed. Before the war, before Gríma Wormtongue, before Théodred, before everything, he and Éowyn told each other everything. Every secret, every misadventure and hope and dream. They have been trying to get back to that, their bond reforged in the face of potential loss, so he told her the truth. “I am struggling. You know I never wanted this.”

Éowyn smiled sadly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know,” she said, “but I also know Rohan could not ask for a better king.”

Éomer snorted. “Théodred-”

“I loved our cousin,” Éowyn interrupted, “you know I did, but as much as I loved Théodred and miss him, I cannot ignore his faults. The Valar knew what they were doing when they made you king.”

Éomer laid a hand on Éowyn’s where it sat on his shoulder and squeezed. “I think I needed that reminder,” he said quietly, feeling an almost overwhelming rush of affection for his sister because she was right. He had remembered Théodred with the warm rosey light of someone he loved and missed, but, sitting here in his study, with the business of Rohan spread out before him, he could admit that his cousin was no leader of men. 

“Are you coming to her Majesty’s party tonight?” Éowyn asked, startling him from his reverie. 

Éomer nodded. “Yes, I am.”

Éowyn smiled. “Excellent. Faramir has two left feet and I would like to dance tonight.”

“I am happy to oblige,” Éomer returned his sister’s smile, then remembered, “but I am afraid my first and second dances are already spoken for.”

Éowyn frowned down at him. “Your first _and_ second dances? Do I need to save you from matchmaking mothers?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I will be dancing with Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

Éowyn’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? With Lothí?”

Éomer frowned at her. “You know the princess?”

“Aye, of course,” Éowyn replied. “She is Faramir’s cousin. I visited her and her goodsister last autumn in Dol Amroth. Strange place, but beautiful, and I like Lothí. She’s fun.”

“She’s blind,” Éomer pointed out, trying to sound uninterested in the fact.

Éowyn rolled her eyes. “Yes, she’s blind, but she’s not incapable.” She moved to sit on the edge of his desk, expression carefully blank, blue eyes focused on her fingernails. It was almost comical, a pregnant woman attempting subterfuge, except her attention was on him which left him with an uncomfortable creeping feeling along his spine. 

He stood, holding up his hand to stop her. “Whatever you are thinking, _no._ ”

She blinked innocently up at him, her blue eyes following him as he tried to escape her prying questions. “I’m not thinking anything, really,” she protested. “I’m just remembering a funny story from my trip to Dol Amroth.”

“Oh, really?” Éomer asked archly, not believing her for a moment. 

“Well, not funny, exactly,” Éowyn amended with a smile. "But it was interesting."

Éomer sighed. He was not getting out of this conversation, no matter how hard he tried. "What was it like, visiting Dol Amroth?" He asked with another defeated sigh.

Éowyn grinned. "Beautiful, colorful. If the princess wears traditional clothes tonight you might swallow your tongue."

Éomer's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?"

"Never you mind," Éowyn replied. Somewhere outside, a bell chimes. With some effort, she stood. “Now, come along. You should start getting ready.”

Éomer reached out to steady her automatically. “Are you sure you should be dancing tonight?” he asked, eyeing his sister’s 7 months pregnant belly.

Éowyn rolled her eyes. “I’m fine,” she informed him, “and I only want to dance to a slow song. Quit your fussing. I get quite enough of that from Faramir.”

Éomer’s mouth twitched. It didn’t surprise him at all that his goodbrother fussed over Éowyn. In truth, she deserved it. Deserved to be loved so dearly. “If you’re sure,” he returned docily, twining her arm through his.

“Of course I’m sure.”

Together, the tall pair made their way through the palace of Minas Tirith. Éowyn, being the wife of Gondor’s Steward, the Lady of Emyn Arnen, and Princess of Ithilien, resided in the House of Stewards in the first ring, not far from the Gate of Kings. It was Éomer’s intention to escort his sister all the way back to her townhouse. However, as they strolled through one of the larger gardens, they were found by Faramir. 

The young Steward of Gondor smiled at the sight of his wife and goodbrother. Éomer released his sister’s arm, allowing her to go to him and receive a gentle kiss to her forehead. Then, Faramir turned to him. “Well met, Éomer,” he greeted Rohan’s king with a wide smile, arm settling around Éowyn’s waist. “How are you?’

“I am as well as may be,” Éomer replied with an equally broad smile. It was hard not to like Faramir. The man was so very good natured, friendly and kind.

Éowyn pressed a kiss to her husband’s cheek, then turned to her brother. “We'll see you tonight?”

"Aye, tonight." He watched as Éowyn and Faramir walked away, arm in arm.

When he returned to his suite of rooms in the palace, Gárfred, his young squire, was laying out a plush velvet tunic of deep emerald. Weathered Fénleth, the veteran of many of a campaign and Éomer's indispensable manservant, straightened from polishing Éomer's best boots. 

"Highness," he acknowledged Éomer's entrance.

Gárdred smiled at his king and bowed low. He gestured to the clothes laid out on the bed. "Do you approve, Your Majesty?"

"Very much," Éomer told him with a smile. "You have chosen well."

Gárdred beamed. Fénleth stood and set the boots at the foot of the bed. "I am glad you approve our choices for tonight, Your Majesty." He pointed imperiously at the bathing screen just visible through the bathing room door. "I have taken the liberty of having a bath drawn for you. Please wash yourself before the water goes cold.*

Éomer resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Fénleth had been Théoden's manservant and had taken charge of Éomer when he was crowned King of the Mark with all the confidence of a general marshalling an unruly soldier. Now Éomer couldn't imagine being king without him. In addition to ensuring Éomer was always presentable, Fénleth provided invaluable wisdom in the dealing of state affairs. He was, however, a stickler for propriety and rather fastidious. Éomer liked a good bath as well as the next man but Fénleth seemed determined that he smell of roses at all times. Even Gárdred, who was only twelve, couldn't escape Fénleth's finicky nature.

However, Éomer did not argue. Instead, he meekly obeyed his manservant and proceeded to the bathing room where he found a large copper tub filled with steaming water into which he lowered himself gratefully.

He was almost done when Fénleth entered the room, carrying a small jar. Without waiting for permission, he poured a good helping of sweet smelling oil over Éomer’s head.

Éomer sputtered. “What?”

Fénleth looked down at him, face impassive. “I have heard you are to dance with the Princess Lothíriel this evening.”

“Does the whole bloody palace know?” Éomer demanded.

Fénleth ignored the question. “It is my understanding that the princess is blind. Should you choose to woo her, you will need to appeal to what sense she has: touch and scent and hearing.”

“And who said I intended to woo her?”

Fénleth blinked at him. “Have you not claimed the first two dances tonight?”

Éomer sighed. There was no arguing with Fénleth when the older man thought he had the right of it. At least whatever oil he poured over him wasn’t flowery. Éomer didn’t think he could stand to smell like a garden. Instead, it was dark and woodsy, fragrant in a way that was undeniably masculine. A small, secret part of him hoped Lothíriel liked it.

The sun was low in the sky when Éomer left his rooms and made his way to the informal dining room. There he found their majesties, Aragorn and Arwen, along with Éowyn and Faramir and a select few other nobles who were friends of Gondor’s king and queen. Éomer was slightly surprised to find neither Amrothos nor Lothíriel were in attendance.

Arwen smiled to see him and gestured to the empty chair at her side. Éomer bowed low to the elven queen before taking his seat. Truly, she must be the most beautiful woman in the world, with moon glow skin, long chestnut hair and eyes the color of the summer sky, but he found himself wishing for bronze skin and gray eyes. 

Arwen leaned towards him. “I am so glad you accepted our dinner invitation, Éomer. Your presence always enlivens a party.”

Éomer dipped his head. “It was an honor to receive your invitation.”

Arwen’s cheeks dimpled beautifully. “I only wish Lothíriel and Amrothos had also come but they both sent their regrets. I think they intended to use the afternoon to rest before the party tonight.”

If Éomer did not know the queen as well as he did, he might suspect her of engaging in idle smalltalk. Unfortunately, he did know her and he saw the look in those enchanting blue eyes. Heat crawled up the back of his neck but he was saved from having to respond by the arrival of the first course. Éomer threw himself into eating with gusto, exchanging nonsensical pleasantries with his other dinner companions and desperately trying to avoid the matchmaking gleam in Arwen’s eyes. 

Bema bless him, was the whole of Gondor attempting to match him with the princess?

Éomer found himself grateful when dinner was done and he was able to make his way into the great hall where other nobles were already gathering. Heralds called out the arrival of King Elessar and Queen Arwen then himself as “Éomer-king, Lord of the Riddermark.” He wasn’t sure he would ever grow accustomed to hearing his titles but he nodded gravely and followed Aragorn and Arwen down the grand staircase and into the ballroom.

The chattering of various nobles filled the high vaulted room with a gentle buzz and Éomer snagged a glass of Gondoran red wine from a passing server. As more nobles arrived the murmering seemed to grow denser, but not louder, punctuated by the heralds at the door, calling the names of the esteemed guests. Éomer pretended he was not listening for one name in particular when a herald announced, “Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth and Lady Rohesia of Anórien.”

Éomer turned expectantly, but there was only Amrothos, dressed in striking sapphire, and the same pretty young woman who had found them in the garden, her light brown hair curled and braided about her head. He remembered then Amrothos' bargain with the young lady, that he was to escort her tonight. He took a sip of his wine and sighed.

Éowyn patted his arm consolingly. "Lothí will be here soon, I'm sure."

Éomer opened his mouth, intending to deny his interest in the Dol Amrothan princess, when the herald called, “Princess Lothíriel and Princess Ivriniel of Dol Amroth, Lady Gilaen of Dol Amroth.”

He took a deep breath to keep himself from whipping around. Éowyn’s comment about traditional Dol Amrothan garb had piqued his interest. When he did turn to look, Lothíriel was halfway down the stairs, flanked by Princes Ivriniel and her blonde companion. 

The entirety of Éomer’s being froze. 

Lothíriel’s skirt was deep blue-green, decorated with glittering gold flowers, her bodice a matching, shimmering gold. A matching sash of sheer material edged in golden flowers was fixed across her torso, held in place by a gold belt, but it could not disguise the fact that her clothes were in two pieces and exposed her stomach.

His checks burned and he swallowed hard. At his side, Éowyn muffled giggles. His lungs constricted almost painfully and he had to force them to expand, sucking in air. _That - that was...traditional?_

Éomer was pretty sure the last time he saw so much skin on a woman he paid for the pleasure. 

“Drink you wine,” Éowyn advised. Even without looking at her he could hear her smile. “You’ll need your courage to speak with her.”

Éomer obeyed without thinking, downing his wine in one gulp. The alcohol sent a gentle buzz through his veins but he knew it wasn’t enough. Beneath the chandeliers, Lothíriel’s skin turned to the deep bronze of a setting sun. Her sleek dark hair gleamed, a curled sheet down her back. On her forehead rested a diamond that glinted almost as bright as her eyes. 

As he watched, she descended the stairs and was met at the bottom by Amrothos and Lady Rohesia. The crowd between her and Éomer surged, blocking her from his sight and when it moved again, she was gone. He blinked, looked around to see where she’d gone.

A small hand rested on his back between his shoulders. Éowyn pointed surreptitiously to a spot at the foot of a column slightly removed from the crowd. Lothíriel stood with Ivriniel and her companion, smiling brightly. Ivriniel said something and she laughed, face lowered but undeniably mirthful. 

“Go,” Éowyn urged, gently pushing him forward. 


End file.
